


Adrift

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Absence, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Battle, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Relationship, Separations, Serious Injuries, Sexual Tension, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened because Arthur was an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/77939.html). (21 September 2011)

It happened because Arthur was an idiot.

If Merlin had been possessed of the time to reflect, he would have agreed that many of the unfortunate occurrences in which he had recently become involved had Arthur as their cause, but Merlin had no time for any such thoughts, could not indulge himself in watching the entire scene as it unfolded. He had no more time than that which was required to cry out before Arthur had crumpled out of sight, and Merlin could not go to him, could only scream his fury until the frigate was taken and he had the French captain’s sworn surrender.

It had been a mistake to let Arthur come. Merlin would never have allowed it, had he known—had either of them known, for he knew that Arthur was incapable of keeping all but the most deadly secrets, and would have betrayed himself to Merlin one way or another. In truth it was almost comedic, the turn of events which had led them to this: to Arthur falling backward, scarlet spreading over his breast while Merlin was held helpless in battle. They had been lured in by a Dutch whaler, signaling desperately for aid. She had needed the aid—that much was certain, with a hull leaking faster than her bilge pumps could dry her out—but she had not been Dutch, and certainly not a whaler. And she had not been alone: a fact Merlin would have caught— _should_ have caught—had he not been distracted by his passengers, the most dangerous of cargo.

The passengers were easy enough to explain at the surface of things. Morgana had requested and subsequently secured passage to Antigua on the ship her mother’s brother served on, looking for a new adventure and a return to the old stories she and her uncle had both been so fond of when she was a child ill-disposed to the more traditional tales; Arthur had insisted on accompanying her as a chaperone, for in his eyes one elderly naval officer was hardly enough to be keeping Morgana out of trouble. If there was another reason, a reason having much less to do with Morgana and more with the terrible sense of ennui which had settled over him in the months since he had last seen the _Kilgharrah_ and her dashing young captain, he spoke of it to no one.

The crew of the _Lady Freya_ were old hands, able seamen all, and the captain an older hand still, old enough that when he collapsed in the unusual heat of a London August afternoon, the admiral smartly dispatched him to pasture—the better able to polish the relics of his multitude of accomplishments and accolades—before peering around the swarming ranks of lesser men for his replacement. Captain Merlin Emrys had impossibly, incredibly, been perfectly positioned for the post, aided more by the number of prizes he had brought to port than the questionable politics of his benefactors, though he was unaware of it entirely until he presented himself at the Admiralty in answer to the summons, his uniform as spotless as his record and his mind discomfited by his sudden arrival in London.

The admiral was somewhat surprised at the muted response of the young captain to the news of his new appointment: the _Lady Freya_ , though slightly battered by the elements and the French, was a splendid ship, possessed of a crew twice as large as that aboard the _Kilgharrah_ , with bigger and more powerful guns than any the _Kilgharrah_ could ever hope to boast. Merlin neither wept nor smiled for joy, but quietly thanked Admiral Barrington and accepted the orders for immediate sailing with an odd look in his eye. Barrington was in a rare jolly mood, greatly pleased with the world—his mistress had sent him her handkerchief only that morning, and at lunchtime he would take himself for a long and private drive in his carriage to meet with hers—and put it approvingly down to modesty on the part of Captain Emrys; an admirable trait, he thought as Emrys saluted and left him, and one which too few men possessed.

He had not an inkling that the look had nothing to do with modesty but rather with despair: a secret, contained despair which welled up regularly inside Merlin during the visits he made that afternoon to his prize agent, tailor, and lodging house, for Merlin could not help but think of the letter he had sent only that morning and which was now rendered useless by the tide and the orders he carried in his pocket. Orders to Antigua to protect a convoy bound for Gibraltar, and the possibility of a cruise beyond; the tide which would not wait for the following afternoon, when Merlin had engaged to meet a certain titled gentleman who always attended their meetings impeccably dressed, boasting of some new chess move he had mastered while Merlin had been away.

“You’ve a letter, Merlin,” Dr Williams informed him on the stair when Merlin made his weary way to his own room. “Fellow dropped it off not half an hour ago.” Despite the cold indifference of his knife, Williams was not fully unattached from human sympathies, and he noted with a physician’s critical eye the flush of Merlin’s cheeks, the sudden quickening of his old friend’s breath. “I’ve kept it for you, safe,” he added, producing the letter from beneath his coat, and did not mind when Merlin barely stopped to thank him before pounding up the remaining stairs and closing the door firmly. The good doctor was, after all, an intelligent man, and did not like to pry.

Merlin barely stopped to check the writing nor the seal on the envelope before ripping the letter open, too suddenly greedy for the words to care that the paper tore beneath his hands. What he read there made him go red, then quite pale, and he sat down hard in one of the chairs of his sitting room before reading the letter once more, smoothing his fingers over the words as if that might change them.

It did not, of course, and the following morning he supervised not only the loading of his own trunk and the general supplies for the voyage, but also the personal effects and bodies of two passengers: the last two people Merlin had ever wished to see upon his own deck, and especially not on the deck of a ship he had not yet had the chance to learn. He determined to avoid any encounters with the lord and lady as far as might be possible—a difficult task made easier by the foul wind which rose not an hour after leaving port, and which continued to worsen for the better part of a week before abating, slowing their progress greatly and causing a good deal of discomfort to all onboard, even those accustomed to the sourest squalls.

The _Freya_ was a taut ship and a good one, and by the time the weather eased from driving rain into scudding foamy whitecaps, she was a cheerful one as well; or would be, Merlin presumed—the crew were a solid bunch and the officers easy in their experience while avoiding the wretched trap of ill-will which so often accompanied older sailors under a young captain. The gale had blown them past all of that misfortune, and by Friday, with matters settled and a steady wind in their sails, Merlin was enough at his ease to host the members of the fireroom for dinner. He invited the passengers to dine as well, of course—to do otherwise, given the status and personalities of the passengers on both land and sea, would have been folly—but never had he dreaded a supper more.

The guests were punctual, arriving almost at once at the appointed hour, and though the conversation was stilted at first, occupied with the weather and other such neutral sundries, by the second course it seemed that the meal might be a success, after all. Merlin had met with such success in his previous post as to have a handsome sum saved for these occasions, and Gaius had made the most of the fresh supplies they had loaded while in port; conversation flowed easily with the wine, though the men were abstaining from their usual amount in deference to the lady, who paid no heed to their sensibilities and drank as much as any of them, suffering half the ill effects.

“It was such a shock to hear about Captain Aredian,” Morgana said as they picked their way leisurely through a very fine pudding. “By all accounts he seemed a very fine man.”

“A fine sailor,” her uncle allowed: a common statement made surprising by the fact that Tristan rarely spoke at all outside of duty.

Morgana, mischievous from wine, felt that this was not at all the sort of answer she had been hoping for. “It must have been a surprise for you, Captain Emrys. Was it not very hard to leave your old ship?”

“Of course it is never easy to leave a ship and a crew one has come to love,” Merlin said, “but I am subject to the demands of the service, and the _Lady Freya_ is a fine ship, with as good a crew as any man could ask for.” He had stuttered at the beginning of this small speech, but recovered nicely, with not a little relief. The reason for the stutter was not that he had trouble composing his thoughts before an audience, but that he had not altogether been paying strict attention to the lady Morgana’s conversation: he had instead been most determinedly staring at a stain on the tablecloth in a concerted effort to avoid staring at her brother. So far he had been remarkably unsuccessful, and miserable with the failure.

Morgana did not notice his stumbling. “Shall we encounter any interesting things in the voyage?” she inquired. “I would dearly love to see some of the birds I have heard mentioned, which fly around the world without rest.”

“Interesting, as with beauty, lies in the eye of the beholder,” Tristan observed dourly—a statement which, though true, was received poorly by his audience, who had been hoping for something slightly more rousing.

“Come now, captain,” Morgana coaxed, turning to Merlin again. “Surely there must be something fascinating to see before we come to port again.”

“It is mostly water and a few birds, I am afraid, and despite my name I am not much of one for birds,” Merlin admitted wryly, as he did not care to test exerting himself in conversation while so much of his mind was wrapped up in something entirely separate. “I will leave that question to the expertise of Dr Williams.”

Williams gladly accepted the chance to discourse on some of the rarer species, their habits, and the likelihood of their being seen between the north Atlantic and the Caribbean—a topic of philosophical importance nevertheless somewhat lost on his audience. The officers were well-used to the peculiarities of those with whom they went to sea, and instead of listening used the opportunity to reflect upon their own private matters, each concluding that while the new captain might appear too young for a post such as this, he had shown himself equal to the gale, and at the very least laid a fine table. 

Arthur, for his part, felt unbearably oppressed by the heat in the small cabin, even despite the chill which always descends on the open sea after nightfall. He had found himself staring at the neckcloth meticulously folded around Merlin’s throat no less than eight times, and at the polished buttons of his coat a further five times more, wondering how he might strip Merlin of his clothing in the most efficient way. Looking at the pale skin stretched over Merlin’s jaw and then at the slim curve of his remaining fingers, Arthur could not help but remember the last time he had seen Merlin—what those fingers had done to him—a thought which had threatened to undo him entirely.

Arthur blushed, and when he glanced up to see Merlin staring at him, desire and hunger hidden in his eyes, he blushed again, so hotly that the gentleman seated at his left asked him solicitously if he wouldn’t rather take some air.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, gratefully, setting aside his napkin, glad the meal was over and he could excuse himself without undue rudeness. “I believe I shall.”

He did not go far, not sure enough of his legs beneath him to dare going anywhere near the rails, but he found a sheltered place to sit and shut his eyes tightly, bending his dangerously straying thoughts back beneath his iron will. The effort was in vain, the effects ruined the moment he heard Merlin’s voice, low and close beside him.

“Did you know?”

“I swear to you I did not,” Arthur said, opening his eyes. Merlin was before him, near enough to embrace and yet entirely untouchable, buttons and epaulette gleaming in the dim light of the fading evening. “We did not even know until the morning of our departure that Captain Aredian had retired from the service.”

Merlin did not reply directly, and Arthur took the moment to gaze his fill. “Eight months,” he said, so soft he was not sure Merlin could hear the words, yet still his heart thumped with the fear that anyone passing by might hear them. He wished to reach out, curl a hand around Merlin’s slender wrist to brush the skin stretched like tissue over the bones, to feel the heartbeat pound in time to compliment his own. “Merlin—” he began, unable to keep himself from leaning closer, bending from the waist where he was seated in a delirious effort to erase the distance between them.

Merlin started with unhappy surprise at the movement, and looked around sharply. “Hush,” he said, so severely that Arthur would have stepped back, had he been standing. Merlin saw this, and controlled the violence of his emotions with an effort, permitting himself to lay one hand on Arthur’s shoulder: innocent, a touch which could be easily explained between old friends. “We cannot,” he said quietly. “Arthur, you must see that it is quite impossible.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, for he did. He well knew how little privacy was to be found on ships—though not, he supposed, half so well as Merlin did himself. His natural spirit rebelled against the strictures, and for a wild moment he wished for something on the ship to break, that they might lay up in some quiet port for a week at least while repairs were made.

Merlin saw this written in his face—and further, knew his mind too well for Arthur to have a hope of hiding. “Courage, dear heart,” he said. “It is only a matter of weeks left; what is that to us, when we have waited months?”

“Damn the waiting,” Arthur said, but very low, without venom, and allowed himself to lean his cheek against Merlin’s hand where it rested still on his shoulder. They stayed in this attitude for some time, neither willing to give up the meagre consolation of the touch, until a momentary rise in volume from within the cabin made them pull apart with fear of discovery.

“I will leave you to your thoughts, Lord Pendragon,” Merlin said very cordially, in a voice meant to carry further than a whisper. “It is a pleasant night for pondering, after all.”

“I dare say it is,” Arthur said, standing—he would claim fatigue and unsteady legs, and make an early night of it, no longer having the desire to converse with anyone. He made sure to pass close to Merlin, and leant in close to murmur; “I shall ponder you all night,” leaving Merlin quite immobilised behind him. It was only the truth, Arthur reasoned, and after he had closed the door to his tiny cabin was once more grateful for the solitude his rank afforded him. 

*

It was far from the first time Merlin had sailed a ship from London for the Leeward Isles, and, being exacting in his log, he knew to the smallest fraction of a degree how far they had come and how much further they would need to sail: hardly the lengthiest of voyages, but the distance seemed to grow each day, until it seemed to him they would be trapped forever in some terrible limbo, neither gaining nor losing ground. He had controlled his temper admirably—it would not do to gain an unpleasant reputation on his first cruise with a new crew—but alone in his cabin he could admit the toll the voyage was wearing on him. 

Seeing Arthur every day, being in such close quarters—for Arthur not only paced the deck for exercise daily but had also become friendly with the officers, asking educated questions about the intricacies of sailing such a ship, and was often to be found on the quarterdeck itself—had become nothing less than the sweetest of agonies. Merlin was not so selfish as to imagine Arthur had not felt something of the same torture, but then, Arthur did not also have a ship and a crew which depended on his mind remaining absolutely clear. His sleep had not been easy, and he had taken to retreating to his cabin during the few hours his presence was not required on deck, focusing his energies on writing half-hearted letters and triangulating their position constantly, in the foolish hope that this might somehow affect the wind or currents into adopting a more favourable position. 

It was here Arthur found him one afternoon, occupied in grave contemplation of the clouds steadily darkening to the south and west.

“Gaius thought you might like a bit of something to warm you,” Arthur said upon being admitted, and Merlin blinked to see him balancing a tray against the rolling sea with all the proficiency of a lifelong sailor. “With the storm building and all; you’ll need it later.”

Merlin thanked him, accepting the cup and saucer Arthur handed to him without drinking from it. He could not keep himself from staring, could not tear himself away from the open contemplation of this man who occupied even the least of his waking thoughts—and for that matter, was too often made the focus of his dreams, as well. Arthur looked well at sea, Merlin thought. The sallow, sickly greenness his face had shown in the early days of the voyage had given way to the ruddy tone which was natural to his complexion, and his hair, attractively tangled from the wind, had lightened in the sun. He wore a simple coat and fine new boots; his shirt, tucked into his faded breeches, was open at the neck, and Merlin felt such a desperate lust rising up within him that he feared he might disgrace himself by fainting entirely away.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, very low, and Merlin turned away blindly, setting his fragile cup on the charts spread over the table with trembling fingers and putting another pace between himself and Arthur.

“I cannot,” he said, speaking almost to himself. “I cannot bear—Arthur.” The last word he could not maintain, and it cracked, sinking into a despairing whisper as he bent his head. Presently, he felt cool fingers on his neck, and leant into the touch, robbed of the last of his will to deny himself this simple, terrible comfort. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, stepping nearer still. Merlin could feel the bulk of Arthur’s chest brushing along his back, the heat of Arthur’s breath along his cheek, and could resist no longer. He turned into Arthur just as Arthur’s arms encircled him to draw him close, and they met in a frantic crash of lips, heedless of teeth or the crush of their noses, each too intent on remembering the taste and feel of this relief to mind. Merlin had discarded his coat hours earlier, and Arthur’s hands ran hot over the sturdy cloth of his shirt, pulling until he could slip his palms in and under to stroke at Merlin’s skin. Merlin shuddered at the contact, his own fingers knotted in Arthur’s coat, and pressed more fully into Arthur, until Arthur had backed up and was nearly bent over the table—both of them well past the thought of anything but this, of their bodies joined once more, this shattering desire which washed all else into pale insignificance.

Merlin had just begun to pluck at Arthur’s laces when a knock came at the door, startling them apart in terror. Arthur sat abruptly in the lone chair, the better to hide his state of disarray and the most obvious evidence of his arousal; Merlin ran shaky hands through his hair, which was mussed from Arthur’s attentions, and, tucking his shirt once more into the back of his breeches, called for whoever had interrupted them to enter.

It was a midshipman at the door—Collins, Merlin thought his name was, more timid than the rest and less promising a navigator—Merlin did his best to steady his breathing, for here, arranged like this, it was obvious he had only been showing Arthur their course, perhaps, or explaining some of the finer points of cartography.

“A sail, sir,” said Collins. “Two points south; Mister Morison believes they may be signalling for aid.”

“Very well,” Merlin replied, reaching for his coat, which lay across the back of the chair Arthur occupied. He did not betray that he felt Arthur’s jump as Merlin’s fingers brushed across his shoulder. “Inform Mister Morison I shall be with him directly.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said brightly, and dashed away, leaving Merlin to collect the necessary things and follow at a more sedate pace.

Merlin paused at the door. “You are welcome to rest here,” he said, without meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I hope this will not put us off our course unduly, and I shall shortly be at liberty again.” He left without waiting for Arthur’s reply; Arthur, though he had a great deal he wished to say, found himself quite unable to put any of it into words.

Arthur emerged some time later, having taking the necessary moments to compose himself—he felt as if his very soul had grown thin and withered in the long days at sea, and he longed for some distraction—and found at once the disturbance he had looked for: all was carefully orchestrated chaos, whistles and shouted orders as the crew positioned guns and the marines looked to their priming. Even as he left Merlin’s cabin, men were entering to convert the living space to a platform meant for war. 

Somewhat bewildered by all the movement, Arthur found Merlin on the quarterdeck in hurried conference with his first lieutenant and the captain of the marines, and paused near them—not so near as to seem overtly prying, but hoping nevertheless for some word or explanation. Merlin, of course, saw him at once, and stopped the discussion before Arthur had caught more than one or two perplexingly nautical phrases.

“Lord Pendragon,” said Merlin. “I must ask you to go below at once, sir.”

Arthur had never been a man so easily dismissed. “What’s happened?”

“The bloody French,” growled the marine, launching an admirably colourful description of the nation and its people before remembering himself and adding, his face red as his coat, “—sir.”

“We have beat to quarters,” Merlin said, in the crisp tones of one accustomed to command. “I expect we shall be engaged in battle presently; we have already received a shot across our bow.” Arthur looked around, wondering where the expected fight was to come from—and saw the enemy ship tacking hard behind them, with three more sails trailing behind.

“The weather-gage—” the lieutenant said, frowning.

“Will not be ours much longer,” Merlin interrupted grimly; although he had misread the initial situation, his mind still dazed and too concerned with matters not at all to do with sailing, he had the feel of it now, and he did not like their chances in the least. “Lord Pendragon, I must insist.”

“Am I not allowed to fight for my country?” Arthur said, not a little desperately, for he could see the hilt of a pistol under the coat Merlin still had not buttoned, and could not bear the thought of sitting below while men—while _Merlin_ —went forth to fight.

“Lord Pendragon.” Merlin’s voice was firm, falling hard as iron. “All civilians must occupy themselves below until the danger has passed. If you wish to help, I dare say Dr Williams will be able to find a use for you.”

Arthur set his chin and shoulders dangerously, but Merlin stepped closer under the guise of turning Arthur bodily away and said, softly, “Arthur. I implore you.”

Damn him, Arthur thought, with real regret and growing anger. _Damn_ Merlin for knowing him too well and hardly bothering to hide it; damn Merlin for sending him away when the only place Arthur could bear imagining was at Merlin’s side. He glanced back at Merlin’s face, and what he saw there only worsened what he felt. He took his leave without further fuss—left without a word and locked his cabin door behind him before dashing the plate Gaius had brought him earlier to the floor in a fit of pique and making for his chest, digging through the coats and breeches until he came to the pair of pistols hidden at the bottom, snug and dry still in their holsters. He took them to the bed and carefully began to ready them, one ear cocked for the unmistakeable sounds of battle joined in earnest.

*

Merlin had watched Arthur leave with a terrible tightness in his chest, a pang which did not diminish as he urged the _Lady Freya_ on to faster speeds. It had been a mistake to draw so close to the unknown ship; folly to focus on her wallowing so intently that he missed the other sails creeping up behind. But he could not change that—he could only hope that, near as they were to friendly ports, they might outrun the French ships or encounter help along the way. He was not a man inclined to run, and hated to do it now, but the enemy had taken all the advantage, and he had never been fool enough to seek a battle he was sure of losing.

He could not help but think of Arthur, as well; if anything were to befall Arthur on a ship under Merlin’s command... The very idea of it did not bear thinking.

They ran through the night, all canvas straining beneath the storm which had finally broken, the lashing rain and waves drenching them all to the very bone but allowing them to gain a bit of ground on their pursuers. The enemy was too clever to lose them entirely, and the following day—a grey afternoon, the sea slate and fickle under heavy skies—the first ship had closed enough to fire a volley, ripping through the stern and killing the bosun’s mate instantly. From then it was a confusion of broadsides and commands, Merlin calculating the wind and the enemy’s next move until they had manoeuvred close enough to allow for boarding.

The French ship—it was a frigate, well-manned and armed to the teeth—soon proved to have a far larger crew, but the Freyas fought with a mania the Frenchmen could not match, and the battle raged from one deck to the other, the clash of steel and screams of the wounded hanging heavy on the air with the stench of blood and powder. Merlin had long since abandoned his pistol, his sword merciless in his hand, fighting toward where he could see the French captain directing the action from the back of the frigate. The gorge had risen in him—he was utterly focused at the grisly task at hand: absolute surrender of the enemy or death at his hands—and it was pure, awful chance that he caught a glimpse of white and gold from the corner of his eye.

For lack of any other weapon, Arthur had been laying about viciously with the butts of his spent pistols, cracking skulls and, he feared, sending more than one sailor down to add up his final accounts. He had let the battle push him forward, all the while searching desperately for Merlin—surely, surely he would have heard had the captain fallen; surely there would be more disorder, despair in the ferocious ranks of the Freyas if their captain had been killed—unless the fact was not known, unless Merlin lay broken in some corner where no one had seen his body—but no, he could not let himself think that way, could do nothing but fight, yelling out the bloodlust which collected in his throat.

Merlin saw him as he crossed to the frigate, leaping cleanly from one deck to the other, and before he could shout, before he could do anything to warn Arthur—before he could pull him away or clap him in irons for such flagrant defiance of a direct order—Arthur was reeling, white shirt turning red beneath his coat, and Merlin could see him no more. 

Merlin’s world went pale, then black, and he was screaming—he was calling Arthur’s name—there was a wetness on his face which could be blood or tears or perhaps both—he was still fighting, slashing with a fury which surprised him even as it felt inadequate, as if he could still save Arthur if only he could end the battle—he had his blade to the captain’s throat—the colours were struck—the enemy were laying down their arms—it was finished.

It was not finished, of course—there was the small matter of three other, larger sails bearing down, nearly upon them—and Merlin could waste no time in securing the surrender and arranging a prize crew to bring the frigate in, both ships spreading everything but their pocket handkerchiefs as they beat toward land. The French doctor, having survived the battle, spoke enough English to be understood, and in the interests of losing no more time than was necessary Merlin ordered him in charge of all the wounded on the frigate without dividing the prisoners from the victors, leaving Dr Williams to look after those who were on the _Lady Freya_ ; they would make a formal tally of the wounded and dead when they reached port.

He did not allow himself to think beyond those facts. He must be a captain before all else; he must care for his ship and his crew; he must think of the ships closing in and the damage the _Freya_ had already sustained. She could not take another drubbing so soon—he must get her to port. He had already taken three turns about the frigate’s deck, searching, and could not risk another.

The wind turned to their favour before evening, and at dawn the Freyas cheered to see the coast and friendly sails on the horizon. The French turned back at that, and at Merlin’s signal several of the ships approaching to greet them tacked off to follow—and finally, _finally_ , he allowed himself to breathe, to lean his head against the warm wood of _Freya_ ’s fo’c’sle and let his shoulders slump in relief. They had escaped, and taken a prize as well, and the casualties—

The casualties were light, as far as Dr Williams could tell; of course he could not speak as to the condition of the sailors on the captured frigate, but it appeared the Freyas had come through the ordeal largely intact. There were the usual shattered limbs and gaping wounds, and at least eighteen had perished, but considering the odds they had been very lucky. Merlin agreed, and yet—though he did not say it—he did not believe it. He was not sure he believed in luck to begin with, and he certainly would never say they had been lucky in this skirmish until he received formal word from the crew aboard the frigate.

There was, however, no time for word to arrive. The prize, far more damaged than the _Freya_ , had limped behind them, falling back dramatically once they had reached safety, and had put into port before they reached Antigua, signalling that she would follow as soon as she was able. And Merlin, upon saluting the harbour and going ashore, was allowed only enough time to place the Lady Morgana securely onto land with her effects and to fix the barest shipboard necessities before putting back out to sea.

“This was only the enemy’s first advance,” Commodore Graves informed him, having received Merlin’s report of the action. “The convoy must sail at once if it is to have any hope of reaching Gibraltar.”

“Sir, if I may,” Merlin tried, for he had dealt with the commodore before and had found him to be a reasonable man. “The _Lady Freya_ needs repairs, a few days at most—”

“I don’t have a few days to give you, Emrys,” said Graves, interrupting. “This convoy carries vital dispatches; time is of the essence. New yardarms and bowlines are being fitted as we speak—the harbourmaster is an old friend, not like these scavengers you find so often now in port, with jobbery at every turn and you in a storm with naught but rotten wood and fraying rope—she’ll be fit for sea by sunup.”

It galled Merlin deeply, but he knew the thing could not be argued further. He bit his tongue and saluted the commodore formally, and when the convoy made sail the _Freya_ sailed with it, taking up the van with an irritable eagerness that bespoke her impatience to do the job and have done with it.

The convoy was not large, and its captains were experienced men; they made good time under a favourable wind, but even this was not enough to assuage Merlin’s sudden bad humour. The Freyas took their captain’s irascibility in stride, for there was hardly an officer in the service who was not short-tempered half the time and a tyrant for the other half—Merlin’s predecessor had himself been a prime example, and had been liberal with the lash. Merlin, though not nearly so despotic, was harsh enough to merit a slight muttering among the crew, who had become quickly used to Merlin’s lighter hand. The officers, when they spoke privately, suspected that the encounter with the French had something to do with their commander’s temper: there had been no formal inquiry or complaint lodged, but they all had ears to hear the indiscreet murmurs which focused on the _Freya_ running cowardly from a fight instead of choosing to engage the enemy—rumours which failed to take in account at all that the ship had been outnumbered four to one and could not be delayed in making port if the convoy was to sail. Aspersions had been cast—in secret, for no one would dare to say it publically, not when Captain Merlin Emrys was such a household name following his success in the Pacific and in Ceylon, with songs being sold by the hundred about his fight with the Spanish ’round the Horn—regarding the character of the captain, heads shaken over the ill effects promotion brought on a head too young for power and command.

Merlin scorned the rumours when he heard them; he yearned to demand satisfaction from someone but knew no good would come of it. Short of defending himself in court, should it go so far, he was determined to ignore them as best he could. He invited his officers to dine less frequently, closeting himself in his cabin with his violin instead, playing with a violence which dismayed his steward and succeeded in improving his mood not a jot; by the time they reached Gibraltar he had broken all but one of his spare strings. 

He had hardly marked the journey; never had his log been in such spotty shape—his mind was all whirling anarchy, worry and guilt and confusion rising and ebbing in turn until he barely knew himself. His cheeks grew pale despite Gaius’s best efforts to cheer him; his eyes hollowed and went dark. At least, he thought to himself, he was still enough his own master that he had acquitted himself tolerably well in the convoy—though they had not encountered a single enemy in the voyage—which had done some good toward repairing the tarnish on his reputation. The thought could not cheer him, and not for the first time he wished he had resigned his commission before the commodore and gone down to the harbour, striking out in whatever vessel he could find until he encountered the captured frigate or drowned in the attempt.

They stopped only a few days in Gibraltar, for intelligence had come through reputable channels that French privateers were manoeuvring to intercept a convoy of merchantmen bound for England with all the wealth and bounties of India aboard; the _Lady Freya_ was turned once again to sea after only the barest time needed to refit the most pressing weak spots in the rigging and to resupply. Merlin had prayed for word of their skirmish to beat them across the Atlantic, that he might have some indication of how—how the Freyas left aboard the French ship had faired—but they had made too quick an advance, and despite the energy he expended searching for any news, there was none to be had. They left Gibraltar none the wiser as to the fate of those they had left behind, and every minute the _Freya_ ploughed through the waves in the direction opposite that where his true heart lay was, Merlin became convinced, the worst, most dreadful torture of his life. 

*

Arthur was barely a month into convalescence before he began throwing whatever was within his reach at the doctors and at Morgana—he would have begun earlier, but it had taken him the full month to regain sufficient strength for the motion. Morgana retaliated by ordering everything which could be moved beyond his reach.

“I do not need a _nursemaid_ ,” Arthur roared at her when she began to feed him once more from a spoon like an infant.

“You need an entire set of nursemaids,” she snapped back, having neatly avoided the bowl he’d attempted to upend on her. “You very nearly needed a new _lung_ , Arthur, and where would you get one of those?”

“I’d take yours.”

“You could _try_ ,” Morgana said. “You’re not to move from that bed until the doctor says you may.”

“He’ll keep me here until I rot.”

Morgana ignored him; Arthur, dear though he might be, had not seen himself the first week after the fight aboard the _Lady Freya_ , when he lay still and paler than death itself while the physicians gathered round and shook their silvered heads gravely—Arthur did not know of the nights she had spent by his bedside, his cold hand in hers, straining to catch his every soft and laboured breath. “I’ll have you tied to the bed if you insist on acting like a child,” she said, and left him to sulk.

By the third month Arthur was able to sit up without support, and he had succumbed to a dangerous lethargy which went deeper than mere indolence or any wound—it seemed to have lodged in his very bones, and refused to quit him entirely. He managed some excitement whenever news reached them—it was not much more than a trickle, and that only infrequently; he suspected Morgana of base treachery—but it was never that which he longed for, and he lapsed back into a dark mood for days afterward. Word had come some weeks past that the _Lady Freya_ had been engaged in a terrible skirmish near the far coast of India, and nothing had been heard since; Arthur had nothing with which to divert himself, and was going slowly mad, and wished he had never left England. Morgana had quickly made herself the glittering centre of society—again—and Arthur was left with nothing, too weak still even to pace the floor. He no longer threw things, though at times Morgana hoped he would, for these days he did nothing, only stared at the same spot on the curtains and allowed himself to be bathed and fed without protest. 

Doctor Reynolds had taken her aside in private to speak of it. 

“Physically, he has made an admirable recovery,” the physician said. “I have never seen the like. But unless he can somehow rouse himself out of this black humour, I fear we may lose him to the slightest fever. You do not know the cause, by any chance?”

Morgana averred that she did not have the slightest idea, her tongue giving life to the falsehood without so much as the slightest pang of regret. She had her suspicions, of course, but they were no man’s business but her own.

Reynolds grunted. “Well, if he does give you some small hint, it may help with the cure. I’ve left more of the tincture for the wound, if he’ll take it.”

Arthur took it without complaint, and would not look at her except to ask if there had been any news. She could tell him very little, only a few of the latest outrages in Parliament, which did not hold his interest even for a minute—he turned his head away and closed his eyes, and she stood for a few moments, impotent, angered at her own inability to reach him.

“Arthur—”

“Thank you, Morgana,” he said, enunciating very clearly. “I am quite tired; if you could perhaps draw the curtains as you go—?”

She left him, and he rolled very carefully to his side, wincing at the pain which lingered still in his chest and keeping his eyes closed, the better to concentrate on the vision he had set aside for himself: Merlin, in the heat of battle, long sword bloody in his hand and his hair wild as he bellowed orders—Merlin in his cabin, kissing Arthur, his hands tight in Arthur’s coat and his body warm and close—Merlin in Arthur’s bed, hot-eyed as his skin slipped along Arthur’s, as his breath filled Arthur’s ears with soft, broken words—Merlin standing before Arthur, stubborn and fragile and _everything_ , everything that Arthur wanted from this life.

Arthur let out a ragged, shuddering sigh, and pushed his face further into the down pillow in the fruitless quest for sleep.

*

They had entered the fifth month since the _Freya_ had left the Sugar Isles, and Arthur was alone in the house, meticulously dressed though he was expecting no callers, and reading in the airy drawing room, enjoying the gentle breezes of the afternoon which were blowing through the doors from the sweeping lawn and the gardens below, when one of the servants entered, bobbing a curtsey and saying, “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a gentleman here for you; he says you’ve been expecting him?”

“I haven’t been expecting anyone,” Arthur replied, but he laid aside his book. Likely it was one of the local planters calling, come to be insufferable and obsequious in the hope that beyond Arthur lay the path to influence in Parliament. Arthur invariably developed a headache within the first five minutes of these sorts of consults, and did not welcome the interruption, but he had been altogether too far removed and unapproachable to his fellow man in the last months, and he did miss the gay distraction of society. “Very well; show him in.”

She curtsied again, gratified by his answer; the gentleman in question had been quite insistent that he be admitted at once, and she had not liked to think of his reaction had a negative answer been returned to him. Arthur returned his attention to his book, determined to finish the sentence he had been parsing out—had that been an idiom he didn’t quite understand, or was it only an ablative clause gone astray?—and he did not at first notice when the caller was escorted into the room, left to hang back by the doorway until he cleared his throat.

“Arthur.”

Arthur’s head came up from the vagaries of Ovid so quickly he felt something snap tight in his neck, but that hardly mattered—nothing mattered, not even the strain he felt when he was too hasty in standing: the last vestiges of his injury—he was across the room before he knew himself to be moving.

Merlin was striding toward him, swept Arthur into a crushing embrace, and Arthur allowed himself to shake apart in Merlin’s arms, his fingers digging too deep, too desperately between the bones of Merlin’s back. He forced himself slowly to relax his grip, and took Merlin’s face between his hands, pressing soft, distracted kisses to Merlin’s cheeks, his nose, the corners of his mouth and eyes—he could not stop himself, never wanted to be further from Merlin than this. He did not realise he was weeping, could not feel the wetness on his cheeks until Merlin reached up to wipe it gently away, his own eyes damp.

“Hush, hush, dear heart—”

“No word; Christ in heaven, Merlin, months without a word—”

“—without knowing what had happened, an agony of ignorance—”

“—thought I would perish, fade entirely away—”

“—did not dare to think—”

“—here, I can hardly bear it—”

“...Come,” Merlin said once they had somewhat recovered, feeling that they had made rather a spectacle of themselves, “this is hardly behaviour fitting of gentlemen.”

“To hell with that,” said Arthur, tightly, and refused to loosen his hold; Merlin did not devote much effort into freeing himself, content to lay his cheek upon Arthur’s and stand in the clear light of the afternoon. It had rained earlier—Merlin’s coat was damp from it—and the air was fresh still, the customary oppressive heat eased by the brief deluge.

“I thought you were lost,” Merlin said quietly, after they had passed a long minute without moving, pressing his nose into the softness of Arthur’s throat. “Arthur, I—there was no news of you, except that the worst was feared—you had not been heard from by anyone; and I could not... I could not bear to think that I... that you had... on _my_ ship—”

“Joy,” Arthur said, hushing him with an intimate finger upon his lips. “Dear, dear man, it was never your fault; not for one moment did I think so.”

Merlin kissed his finger in reply, shaken still to his very sinews from dread—dread that his questions would appear suspicious, dread that he would never be sent to this side of the world again; terror, absolute, that none of it would matter in the end, that Arthur had already passed to those shores where Merlin could not follow. Arthur slid his hand down to cup it around the back of Merlin’s neck, fingertips carding through the soft hairs which curled there, and tipped his face up to Merlin’s to receive a true kiss. It was such a kiss as to make their knees weak, both of them, and each felt himself full to bursting; dizzy from the long terrible months of yearning and despair, all now compressed within their very ribs until there was no room for their breath, no room even for their hearts to beat without a steady, aching pain.

“There is a hidden stair,” Arthur murmured, and Merlin hissed to feel his hands slide toward regions further south. “The servants would never believe I know of its existence.”

Merlin tightened his hold in Arthur’s shirt. “Is it safe?”

“We’ll leave the doors open here. Anyone would think we had only stepped out into the garden.”

Merlin wavered a moment longer, but he could no longer think clearly, wished to think no further than the press of Arthur along his front, the fluttering touches Arthur was laying on his face and throat. Arthur led the way up the stair, which was plain but well-polished and without dust. They were cautious, but met no one in the upstairs corridor, and once the door had closed and latched behind them and they were truly alone, they divested each other of the last of their formalities, the last lingering traces of the propriety they were necessarily required to present to everyone but themselves.

Merlin laid Arthur upon the bed and laid hands on his bare skin, running his fingers over the ugly scars which had not yet faded into silvered calm. This tenderness Arthur could not withstand, and he drew Merlin away, closing his own hands around Merlin’s wrists and drawing him up, drawing him in. They did not speak. It was not a time for words: there was no room for any language between them other than that of the flesh, the prayers contained in the angles of their bodies.

Merlin did not hurry, but played Arthur as he might his beloved violin: exquisitely, with the utmost care, reverence guiding his fingertips; and if he was perhaps not quite in perfect tune that could be forgiven with the trembling he had never entirely suppressed in the months since he had last seen Arthur, the dizziness he now felt at the sight of Arthur beneath him. Arthur touched the parts of Merlin he could reach, wavering somewhere beyond himself as Merlin gently picked apart the threads of his soul. “Merlin—” he managed, a whisper, and Merlin closed his mouth with a kiss: slow, deliberate, unbearably much.

The rain began again, soft, as Merlin entered fully into Arthur, and they clung together, their torn, uneven breath muted beneath the patter of rain on the green riot of the vines obscuring Arthur’s window. Merlin did not hurry—pausing, head bowed, as if he knew his desperate craving would be too much to bear without this measured care to gentle them both; yet Arthur felt even the slightest movement too deeply, as if every thrust would shatter all his bones—he wept again, without knowing it, overcome. He wept not from joy or sorrow but from some purer emotion which sprung from holding Merlin so close to him again—from slipping his arms around Merlin’s shoulders once more and sliding one foot up the smooth back of Merlin’s thigh—from knowing he had Merlin again, _there_ , with him, both of them safe together—he found himself in a state which could not be borne for long.

Merlin finished first, pressing his open mouth in a silent gasp to the bare expanse of Arthur’s throat, and when the shuddering had drained him he pulled away, leaving Arthur to squirm and whimper with the terrible sense of emptiness which followed until Merlin drew close again to take Arthur into his mouth, bringing him to completion with two fingers filling him, pressing in on his most intimate spaces. Arthur fell apart gladly into Merlin’s arms, letting his spine melt into liquid, safe in the knowledge that Merlin would be there to catch every drop—that Merlin would piece Arthur back together again, pour him back into the skin which felt stretched and scrubbed anew.

They lay together afterward, Arthur’s head pillowed on Merlin’s shoulder as they watched the brief rain fade back into sunlight and the shadows move across the warm floor, neither caring to move further than the four corners of the bed. Merlin felt washed clean, sparkling as though the rain had soothed away every soreness, every grimy corner of himself. The rain, he knew, had little to do with it, and he shifted just enough to brush his lips against the silken gold of Arthur’s hair, shining against Merlin’s own pale skin. Arthur gave a quiet sigh, and stirred his hand where it rested on Merlin’s stomach—not a true movement, no more than a small twitch brought on by the heady power of contentment. Merlin stroked his own knuckles down the stretched expanse of Arthur’s back, as far as he could reach, and Arthur made another low murmuring noise as he spread his awareness comfortably between wakefulness and sleep.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, without asking for or expecting to be answered: purely to feel the way his lips and teeth and tongue formed the word. “Arthur.”

Arthur stretched, and brought his knee up to rest upon Merlin’s, moving his head from Merlin’s shoulder to the pillow. “How long am I to have you this time?”

Merlin found he could not look away from Arthur. “Perhaps a month,” he said. “Perhaps less. The Navy will undoubtedly wish to have the _Lady Freya_ closer to home for the winter.” 

Breathing slowly out, Arthur laid his fingers flat, moulding them more closely along the slope of Merlin’s ribs. “Morgana has tired of the delights of coconuts and strange fruits. Undoubtedly she will arrange to be in London before the weather turns.”

Neither of them spoke for quite some time, each occupied with the thoughts which invariably intruded upon them in quiet moments once passion had again burnt itself into smouldering coals.

“I don’t believe I shall put to sea with you again,” Arthur said after a long while, curling himself more firmly along Merlin’s lines.

Merlin could not think of a single thing he wished to say aloud to that, and so he spoke not at all—it was hardly necessary to do so, anyway. He merely turned further into Arthur, winding their limbs together until it was impossible to tell where one stopped and the other began.

“You must promise to come to me instead,” said Arthur softly.

“Always,” Merlin promised, and kissed him, lips plush against Arthur’s own, the slick edges of his teeth pressed close behind: a vow more sacred to him than any oath to God or King or Country, and far more honest.


End file.
